The Children of Skyrim
by Gumdrop Boo - Ch4rms
Summary: They were not but a passing thought a few years ago and now that they are older, the children of Skyrim may in fact, be a very real factor in deciding the fate of their land. Some have become runaway mages, others are talented in the crafts of their forefathers, and there are ones who have fallen into the lives of thieves and assassins.
1. Agni

Agni was startled out of her sleep by an urgent shout of her name. She recognized Sissel's voice before she could properly see the blonde. The sleepy young woman blinked rapidly to make out the figure in her chambers, to make sure it wasn't a lingering dream. It would have been too dark to properly see if not for the cool arcane glow wreathing around Sissel's raised hand that cast miniscule light on one side of her face. Agni would have guessed Sissel was going to wake her with a blast of mage light but had decided against it.

"What is it?"

"There's a man at the entrance. He requested to see you and said it was a matter of urgency," Sissel replied, only a slight tone of concern was evident as she spoke.

"Who is he?"

"He didn't give a name."

Agni frowned and gave a stretch before turning down her quilts and stepping to the floor with a sudden surge of curiosity. Her feet found her boots and slipped in.

"Will you go with me to see him?" Agni asked and pulled her thick apprentice robes over her head. After, she grabbed a small blue bottle off the night stand, uncorked it, and swiftly drank the contents. The strong taste of mint stung her throat but the warming effect took to her blood immediately, preparing her for the icy and relentless weather of northern Skyrim.

It was rather alarming not to mention suspicious that someone would come calling in the dead of night to the College of Winterhold. People in general didn't want to have anything to do with the college unless they had an item that needed to be enchanted. If he was a prospective student there should be no reason he couldn't wait to daybreak to try his test of merit.

Then again, he couldn't have been just a regular person. He had asked for Agni specifically. She had never told anyone where she had gone after running from the boggy swamps of Hjaalmarch, but she figured it wouldn't be hard to guess for those that knew her.

"I'm rather tired," Sissel admitted, catching herself in a yawn when she unceremoniously crawled under Agni's vacated quilts that were now brimming with warmth. This action made it clear that the young apprentice of alteration was not planning on accompanying Agni. They weren't supposed to be out this late anyway which led Agni to internally question how and why Sissel knew of a stranger at the metaphorical gates of the college. Though, that was a question for another time.

"Fine, stay," Agni retorted indignantly.

Sissel gave a tired grin and let the light in her hand extinguish so that Agni could only hear her say, "I'll keep your bed warm."

Agni returned the grin though no one could see.

She had not yet taken to the art of alteration, or rather, was very behind on her studies—but she was more than decent with conjuration and destruction magic, specifically fire, and easily re-ignited a torch that had been put out for the night. She grabbed it and left the Hall of Attainment alone.

The wind whistled sharply past her ears when she emerged outside; the sky was in a rare state of clarity and the aurora was a gradient of deep green to violet. The Sea of Ghosts was washing the rocks below with waves, providing a distant yet relaxing noise.

Down below the walkway, stood a figure holding a torch like her. She thought perhaps he was a courier, perhaps Falion had decided to forgive her for disobeying him four years ago—but the urgency of the matter worried her too. A letter from the man who fostered her could probably wait until morning. Someone must have paid the courier a great amount of gold to get them to travel the cold wastes of Winterhold at night.

"Agni?" she heard a soft baritone say her name as she approached the entrance of the college bridge, careful not to slip on any black ice.

She held her torch out at arm's length, taken aback, because a courier wouldn't have used her name to address her and not in such a familiar tone.

He looked uncomfortable and had one arm wrapped around himself trying for what little warmth he could get. He wore many layers, it was obvious he wasn't used to being this far north. He was also younger than Agni had assumed from what Sissel had said.

"What do you want of me?"

"Do you know where Joric is?"

"Joric?" she was even more befuddled at hearing the name. The only __Joric__ she had ever known was a boy she knew as a child. They had both grown and gone their separate ways years ago.

"Yes, Joric Ravencrone—do you know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him for a long time."

There had been anxiety in his voice; she could see his whole body sigh with disappointment and his jaw clench to keep from chattering because of the cold wind blowing across them both. She stepped closer to see him better. He was a strapping lad. He had the broad shoulders one would have working supplying docks, mines, lumber mills, or even plowing fields. He was definitely not a simple courier.

"Who are you?"

"You don't recognize me Agni?" his head was still angled toward the ground but his eyes met her curious gaze.

She had run from Morthal as soon as she knew she was old enough and powerful enough that she could get to the college on her own—as a fifteen-year-old girl that was determined to master her true potential in the arcane arts. She had little chances of meeting anyone new outside the college. It was too dark, despite the aurora, to recognize any defining features of his face without bringing the torch closer and setting him on fire.

She raised a brow, dumped the torch into the snow head first where it hissed from extinguishment, and ignited her own hand with a small, controlled flame. She held the power until it was a bright ball of heat in her palm.

She raised her hand while stepping closer, and he flinched as if she would set him on fire but it provided more light to actually see him by. Once she saw, she knew his identity, though he had grown much more than she would have imagined in the years since she had last seen him.

"You are far from home, Virkmund."

He flashed a quick grin at her recognition and then looked above them at the daunting walkways, "May I come up?"

Agni felt a bit guilty since he did look cold but shook her head vehemently, "No, the mages don't like strangers."

"I've known you since we were eight years old—"

She cut him off sharply, "You're still a stranger to __them__. We can talk at the Frozen Harth."

The fire in her palm diminished and she grabbed Virkmund's upper arm to guide him to the town's Inn. If more people were awake they might have given her sidelong glances for wearing mage robes but the dismal town of Winterhold was sparse of any life at the early hour.

Almost immediately after entering she was engulfed in a hug, pulled tightly against Virkmund's chest. "It's good to see you again, Agni. You have been missed."

"__Mmf__, thanks Virk," she said muffled into one of his layered shirts and a bit surprised at his sudden action, and overall surprised he was there. He let her go and she gave him a smile of appreciation. It was good to know someone had missed her presence in Morthal.

The Frozen Harth was cozy, a fire burned at the center of the room and the lingering smell of roast pheasant filled her senses. She assumed that Virkmund had already bought a room for the night until she saw him look around the place like he had never seen it before.

"This kind of looks like Jonna's place," he noted. He meant Moorside Inn in Morthal. She figured most inns were built in the same fashion throughout the province.

"Can I help you?" the proprietor asked. The reception area and bar was shadowed and the voice made Agni jump somewhat-she didn't expect anyone else to be awake.

"He needs a room," Agni nodded her head toward Virkmund.

"Only he?"

She glared at the innkeeper's insinuation. Though it was fair—he had witnessed them walk in after midnight together and embrace.

"__Only__ he."

Virkmund took a moment before fumbling with a coin pouch that was tied to his belt and dumped its contents onto the table. He counted out ten coins and put the small remainder back into the bag.

Once they were inside the small room with a single bed, he sat in a chair and Agni stood against the wall with her arms crossed before continuing their conversation, "So what is this all about—what's happened to Joric?"

"He's vanished. No one has seen him for a week. The Jarl sent me to find you."

Agni didn't understand the correlation. Joric was the current Jarl's younger brother. She had been a playmate of Joric's when they were children. Agni remembered the first time she had met him, he looked feverish and told her that a Chaurus would try to eat her. Within a week she found herself lost in the quagmires and running from a Chaurus Reaper all the while, blasting small fireballs at it until it gave up chasing her. She had never been so scared before in her life until that moment. After the Chaurus incident, she took Joric's words more seriously. Not to say he was always making eerie predictions—Joric was an active child and his imagination was vast. He could turn any mundane object to something of an amusement.

One thing she did find irksome though, was that Joric would often blame her foster father for bad deeds. This claim he could never prove in any shape or form—most of the time he didn't even seem like himself when he went into those particular lucid mumblings. In any case, she, Virkmund, and the noble boy had chased each other around the town's surrounding bogs and blooming deathbells in good fun almost every day when they were children.

Then she left. Falion, the closest person she had ever had to a family—he had never wanted her to join the college but she yearned to know more. She could conjure and use destruction magic but had little to no knowledge of the other schools. Also Morthal was a small place, and as she grew older her home seemed more and more confined. There were little to no opportunities in the hold for a mage's apprentice. Opportunity, to her, was at the college.

She glanced at Virkmund and saw his downcast expression and it didn't even occur to her until that moment that she had probably hurt both boys by leaving without saying goodbye.

"Why me though?" Agni asked the most puzzling question in her mind. __Why would anyone think I had seen him last?__

"He had a vision before disappearing—they say he mentioned your name, Agni, and that Skyrim was in grave danger."


	2. Dagny

_The Lady Dagnessa of Whiterun and Thane Joric of Hjaalmarch cordially invite thee to attend their joyous ceremony of matrimony outside the Temple of Kynareth, under the Gildergreen, the 25th of First Seed._

* * *

The parchment was fine, the lettering was elegant, and the ink was permanent.

Seventy-five invitations had been sent out to various noble families, courts, and prominent factions of Skyrim months ago and it was supposed to be the wedding of the year.

Seventy-five honored guests had been very disappointed, as well as most of the city that turned out to watch.

The bride however—the bride couldn't have been happier and at the same time completely mortified.

That was why she had locked herself away in her room in Dragonsreach, continuously demanding bottles of alcohol and of course, all the succulent sweet rolls she could stuff herself with now that she didn't have to watch her figure for a wedding gown.

She regarded the spare invitation in her hand with a half laugh, half sneer. A dark spot of icing had blemished the corner of the page that had been left there by one of her fingers. She stuck her index finger in her mouth to clean it of any remaining sugar and then she promptly crumpled the parchment—throwing it into the fire that crackled heartily in a hearth at the center of the room.

Who did Joric Ravencrone think he was to abandon her the day of _her_ wedding?

He was scum. She had never fancied him—had felt that way all her life, ever since she was first introduced to him when she was twelve and he kept showing up in her city to receive healing attention from Danica Pure-Spring. He was always a strange lad and at times incoherent. He mumbled quite a bit and had a history of being prone to illness. She hated that everytime she talked to him, he seemed to lose interest and stare off into nothing. She hated his small eyes and round cheeks and his stupid predictions for the future.

Their marriage was supposed to be a political one, to tie the neighboring holds together as allies. They were both second children to their line, not to inherit any titles nor thrones—just unlucky ones to be stuck with each other for the good of Skyrim. It seemed her father had made several alliances across Tamriel, but at least he hadn't bid her off to an elf or Talos forbid, a lizard man of high breeding. She stuck out her tongue at the thought of having to kiss something so scaly.

The parchment quickly curled and charred under the flames. The ink was not so permanent anymore.

She sauntered across her room, though a bit off-balance in her undergarments and her long Elvin robe to make her way to the wine, thirsty for more liquid that washed away her unpleasant thoughts.

She grabbed the most recent bottle that she had been drinking from and poured some more into a silver goblet that was standing next to it. She squinted and read the label—it was a Surilie Brothers Vintage from 4E 29.

She raised a brow, impressed that the bottle had survived the Great War and wondered how many Septims it had set back her father's coffer to obtain. Those in court may have called her many things, but stupid was not one of them—she paid attention in her history lessons. She bet half of the Whiterun nobility—including her own brothers couldn't recite what years the Great War had taken place.

She set the wine bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. It was a dark red, rich, beverage that had a worthy taste of its cost.

A few sudden poundings on the door interrupted her solace.

"What?!" she barked, not in the mood to neither see anyone nor be seen. It had been days since she saw anyone else other than her own maids that were only necessary because they fetched Dagny's bottles and cleared away the empties.

"Dagny, you can't stay in there forever!"

It was Frothar, her elder brother. He was the lucky one who was heir to Whiterun. His betrothal hadn't been such a disaster from the start either. He had successfully been wed a year prior to a daughter of one of the Cyrodilic Noble Houses.

She hated being told what she could and couldn't do, especially by Frothar. He wasn't the Jarl yet, "Yes I can!"

Then there came the sound of a key in the lock. She immediately dropped her goblet, paying no mind to the spill and ran to the door, putting all her weight against it.

She felt the door open slightly, and pushed back on it using her whole side, "Go away Frothar!"

"Father said it is time for you to come out. People are starting to worry!" he pushed forward again and it gave way to a crack big enough that she could see his face full of annoyance and disapproval.

She doubted anyone was worried. They were just gossips and bores. He really meant those of court were beginning to 'talk' about her sulking behavior. He must have realized what she was thinking and amended his claim.

"_He_ is starting to worry!"

"Tell father I will come out of my room when Joric's head is on a pike!"

"Dagny!" Frothar chided and sounded a bit horrified at her ultimatum. He let up on trying to force open her door.

His lapse in trying caused her continual bracing to slam the door shut again. She hastily locked the latch again and slid down to a crouch against it since she knew Frothar still had a key. He must have swiped it from one of the maids.

He didn't try opening the door again but he was still on the other side, "You don't mean it do you? Do you want to cause another civil war?"

The 'civil war' was still happening. Sort of. Not so much. The Empire had taken Skyrim after the beheading of Ulfric Stormcloak but there were still pockets of Stormcloak rebels here and there, especially on the eastern half of the province. She had seen the maps of the camps in the war room, fewer and fewer each year. Would they ever just surrender?

She twisted her mouth unpleasantly; she didn't see how a war of any sort could possibly break out with Hjaalmarch—the hold's capital was barely larger than a village. Whiterun may have been a skeever-hole of a city but it had double the forces.

Frothar must have taken her silence as a '_yes_' so he said, "You know, Joric may have just been abducted or eaten by a saber cat on his way here. If it makes you feel any better, Father hired some of the companions to go looking for him."

Dagny sighed and rolled her eyes because those scenarios _did_ make a lot of sense. No one would have suspected Joric to purposefully slight the Jarl's daughter, yet Dagny couldn't help but to feel personally offended by him. Joric was hardly what she would call a warrior, he was easy pickings for a bandit or vicious animal. Joric's sister, Idgrod the Younger—Jarl of Hjaalmarch, should have sent more guards with him. It didn't make her feel any better though. It'd be better for her if he were dead. An idea pricked her brain suddenly but she pushed it away for another time.

It had been a week and no one had seen the young man, nor any sign of his entourage of guards or even his horse. She could tell that Joric liked her about as much as she did him, but he wouldn't have risked incensing his family or hers to break their betrothal. At least, she didn't think he would. She didn't know him all that well but he looked like a milk-drinker if she ever saw one.

"You are not the one people will blame for this. If anything they will feel sorry for you," Frothar tried to convince her to come out, targeting the real cause of her not wanting to leave her room.

No, they wouldn't feel sorry for her—they would laugh at her and be secretly delighted that she was left at the altar. Dagny knew she had never been a sweet girl. She was rather blunt and had no patience for servants who couldn't do their jobs, no respect for courtiers who obeyed the Jarl's every whim to win favor, and no love for a man who couldn't love her first.

"I don't want their pity," she mumbled and shoved her head into her hands, a sudden ache forming there .

"So are you going to come out, little sister?"

It had been a few moments but Frothar was persistent. The Jarl could have sent anyone to fetch her—Gerda, Fianna, Proventus, even Nelkir. She knew Frothar had better things to do than try to coax her out of her room. It was a task not for the faint of heart, but out of all options of those to convince her, Balgruuf the Greater knew she was more likely to acquiesce to her elder brother. Her father must have _really_ wanted her back in public to make Frothar halt his daily business and try, but not enough to come himself—

So she contested it with slurred words—"What'appens if I don't?"

"Then father will have Irileth break in your door, carry you out over her shoulder, and deposit you in the great hall no matter what state you are in," she could hear a trace of amusement in her brother's voice. She didn't find it funny at all but believed the Jarl's housecarl would do just that.

She sighed obnoxiously again for good measure and stood. To her, the room was much more blurry and unstable than before. "Verrry well, I will agree to father's wishes but I 'ave to get dressed first—send Fianna."

She heard him leave; the footsteps of his boots audibly diminishing down the corridor.

She turned as she took off her robe to prepare for more suitable clothes for public and a cold, wet sensation brushed her bare toes. The wine she spilled had run across the floor in a long puddle. She cocked her head to the side, studying it while she waited for the maid. The idea she had pushed back to her mind before was slowly making it's way back to her full attention. If the liquid stayed any longer, the wood would stain red where it sat.

She knew it was just spilled wine, and perhaps it was just the intoxication that altered her view but it was unnerving how much it looked like spilled blood.


	3. Dorthe

_Up, down, up , down, up, down…_

And so the familiar rhythm went as Dorthe's foot glided over the grindstone's pedal.

A grating noise was released as she set the side of a steel sword into the wheel. A few sparks flew up and then dispersed into the air before disappearing altogether. The sword was an order for Faendal, the resident Bosmer of Riverwood. She had forged the weapon herself from scratch and was exceedingly proud of it. She especially loved crafting the hilt, carving out an intricate design in the metal of vines and leaves, hoping he would like it just as much.

Her foot lifted from the pedal and the wheel gradually slowed as she examined her work to see if it was sharp enough to be completed.

"Dorthe!"

She looked up and saw that look in her father's eye—he was displeased about something.

"Your mother told you to wash up near an hour ago for supper and you are still out here lollygaggin'," he threw his arms out and gestured toward the general area of the forge.

She looked around, it _was_ darker than she had remembered but it didn't seem like a _whole hour_ had passed. The long shadows that had been there before had all been swallowed by the one shadow of the Bleak Falls Peak.

"Oh papa, I just wanted to finish Faendal's sword—and look!" she held it up with a broad smile, "it's done!"

She knew that her father couldn't keep angry at her for too long when her excuse for bad behavior involved smithing. Her mother however, could be angry all day and then some when she caught Dorthe in the forge instead of practicing her stitchery.

Alvor nodded knowingly and took it, laying it on the workbench while he found some cloth to wrap it in, "We can deliver it to him tomorrow, but for now you need to wash up."

Her father had a bucket of water and a leaf of soap on the bench in front, meant for her to use. He gave her a pat on the shoulder before going back inside.

Dorthe rubbed at some sweat that had gathered on her brow, then looking at her forearm, saw there was metallic smudging. Her face must have been filthy. She began to take off the gloves and smithing apron she was wearing while she was working—loving the smell of the oiled skin they were made from, ripe with a smoky perfume that one could only get at a blacksmith's forge.

She set them aside and scrambled around the corner to wash up. Lathering her hands with the soap, she applied some to her face and then cupped them full of water and splashed the suds away. Some of the townspeople were walking into the Sleeping Giant Inn across the way to eat or socialize. Her mother had probably prepared roast goat, as she had seen Sigrid buy some raw goat meat from Orgnar earlier in the day. Dorthe could go for some grilled leeks as well.

When she entered her home she saw her mother, Sigrid, was wearing a scowl and sitting at her place at the table and was already eating. Alvor was slicing into a baked potato. Dorthe looked down to her own setting which featured, as she had guessed—leg of roast goat. She was a bit disappointed at the absence of grilled leeks but knew she shouldn't complain. Baked potatoes were fine, just not her favorite.

"You were supposed to be washed up and ready for dinner an hour ago," Sigrid nagged.

"Yes, Papa informed me," Dorthe nodded as she took her seat at the table.

"Don't get smart!"

"I'm not. I'm really sorry but I just lost track of time was all," she replied with sincerity. She didn't intentionally try to annoy her mother but ever since she was a girl her interests and her mother's interests _for her_ couldn't have been farther apart.

"You are behind on mending your quilt. No smithing tomorrow."

"But Mama!"

Sigrid threw her a deeper scowl, daring her daughter to back-talk so that Dorthe's smithing time could be eliminated further. Dorthe took a bite of baked potato and clenched her jaw to keep from talking.

There was a knock on the door.

"Oh now what?" Sigrid snapped.

"Who has the audacity to interrupt people at supper time?" Alvor wondered aloud.

Dorthe could think of a few. Namely Frodnar, who would knock on people's doors and then run away before they answered them for his own amusement. She couldn't help but to outwardly grin remembering that prank he played. Sven's mother swore the knocking was from ghosts.

However, she grew sad because she knew the knock this time wasn't his. Frodnar and his family had been run out of town as the war was ending. His whole family supported the Stormcloaks and they couldn't be welcomed anymore in Riverwood if the small village didn't want to be targeted by Thalmor for lingering Talos worship. She hadn't seen Frodnar for a long time now and missed participating in his pranks. She missed the laughs they shared, the games they played, and most of all she missed the only friend she had while growing up in Riverwood.

The knock came again, only louder.

Sigrid nodded for Dorthe to answer since she was closest.

She did as she was expected—expecting nothing in return but for maybe Embry asking for a spare bottle of Nord Mead as he did sometimes.

As the door opened, she had to stifle a cry of surprise.

Three Thalmor Justiciars were on her doorstep. They stared at her with not so much as a smile in greeting.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The nervous note in her voice was all but obvious. She had heard stories of the Thalmor, knew what they had done in the past and didn't agree with it personally. Her family had supported the Empire, gave up worship of Talos even—and the Thalmor supported the empire so they were all on the same side—right? If so, then why did she feel so unnerved at the sight of these tall, golden-skinned strangers?

The front-most Justiciar, who wore robes, pulled his lips back into a serpentine smile, "We are looking to speak to Dorthe of Riverwood, they said she lived here."

"I am Dorthe," she seemed to let out a breath as she said her own name.

Her father appeared behind her, "What do you want with my daughter?"

"I need to ask her a few questions."

Alvor held a level stare—then after a moment said, "Of course, would you and your...associates like to join us for supper?"

Dorthe noticed her mother's gaze start to panic, she didn't have enough leg of goat prepared for more than the three of them.

The Justiciar's smiled remained but his eyes squinted slightly, silently informing them that he'd rather not. He didn't look like someone who would come to Riverwood by their own choosing and it bothered her that they had questions for her because she couldn't possibly think of a reason why.

As far as she knew, most Thalmor agents had departed Skyrim after the civil war—and only a few remained to eradicate Talos worship once and for all.

"No, thank you. Outside is suitable enough—it should only take a few moments," the tone he used also indicated he wanted to question her without the presence of her family.

Dorthe didn't want to be alone with them but Alvor shrugged helplessly as they led her to the porch area. She sat down on one of the benches along the side of the house. The Justiciars in armor stood on either side of her and it didn't help her growing worry about their intentions.

She did have to admire the armor though, it was Elvin of course, and the green-golden sheen was apparent even as the sky darkened. There was a natural luminescence about the armor reminding her of the moons, Masser and Secunda. She figured the reason for the enchanting look was _because_ it was forged with moonstone. She couldn't make Elvin weapons or armor yet, but had hoped to when she was older and more skilled.

The Justiciar had noticed Dorthe's attention on the armor and cleared his throat, "Very well—first we must ask you if you believe that Talos is a divine. Do you believe that Tiber Septim ascended to godhood?"

She shook her head, "No, he was a mortal emperor in the third era."

The High Elf nodded, satisfied at her answer.

"Do you associate with or personally know any Stormcloak soldiers?"

She shook her head, "No."

Something changed her interrogator's expression. It was a negative, judgmental kind of look. She looked away because his gaze made her uncomfortable.

A rising glow appeared out of the corner of her eye, and before she could make any protest the Thalmor agent released a ball of energy that shot into her chest, and coursed through her—seeming to suspend all activity in her muscles. She slumped over, terrified. She couldn't scream, she couldn't move her eyes to see what was happening, she couldn't move any part of her own body. She was paralyzed.

She felt her hands being shackled in front of her and was lifted up—carried in one of the armored Altmer's arms since she couldn't walk on her own.

Her lips couldn't even move to demand why she was being taken away, _where_ she was being taken or ask _what had she done so wrong_? Her parents would no doubt be looking for her in a few moments but even then it would be too late. She was being kidnapped. She saw the Inn pass by to her right as she was whisked out of Riverwood. They were going North.

After a few moments of no feeling, something tingled in her arm, and she tried wiggling her fingers. Her pinky finger was the only one that would move. She tried to speak but only a garbled sound escaped.

The sound, nonetheless, did catch the attention of the one who held her, "Are you able to move?"

Dorthe willed any moveable part of her that would obey to hurt him. Her leg swung up and didn't do any harm but she relished the startled look that it caused him.

He dropped her at once. She rolled, her legs could move and bend but her top half seemed to still be immobile.

Suddenly there was that same glow, right next to her temple and she heard the Thalmor wizard, "If you scream, if you try to run away—I will hit you with more paralysis magic. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly. Her throat was feeling normal again as was her face, she could move her eyes to look up and see him but ended up squinting at the light of the building arcane ball in his hand.

"Why are you doing this?" it came out in barely a whisper.

He pulled out an unsealed letter from his robes with his free hand and waved it in front of her face, "Because you lied."

She shook her head, to indicate she had know idea what he was talking about.

"We intercepted this letter from a courier near Whiterun—he said that it was from a Stormcloak camp. It's addressed to you."

Then she understood why they thought she had lied.

She _didn't_ know any Stormcloaks though! Why would one be trying to write to her? She opened her mouth to protest but the threat of paralysis only grew as the green light of energy intensified. She bit back a yelp and closed her eyes. She wasn't going to cry in front of these monsters.

"Get up," the same Thalmor commanded sternly and used his soft-soled boot to nudge her side, "You should be able to now."

Her legs felt less stiff and she used her back to lift herself, it was quite difficult with her wrists shackled and she struggled to stand fully. No one tried to even help her.

Once she was standing the light in the palm of his hand evaporated, "Follow me."

She trudged forward with uncertainty. One of the armored Justiciars walked behind her and the other two in front with the wizard leading. She was certain though that if she didn't do as they commanded, they would kill her. The Thalmor were known to be ruthless against those who they thought opposed them.

It was dark out now, the last strip of sunlight had faded behind the mountains and the moons were taking the sky, glowing even—which cast a fair visible light on the land. Did they intent to walk all night? To where?

A wolf howled.

She stopped walking, knowing there was never just one wolf in the woods around Riverwood. They traveled in packs and they were attracted to noises, including footsteps.

"Keep going," the wizard commanded and ignited his hand in flame. She couldn't tell if it was to threaten her into obeying or in preparation for any wolves they might come across.

She reluctantly stepped forward a few steps and kept a look out for any movement from the woods around her. A rustle of brush leaves came from her right and she froze. A few night birds took off out of the pine above them and some loose needles blew past. The Justiciars had magic and armor, she had nothing—not even her hands to protect herself if she were attacked.

A howl sounded again—closer this time.

They noticed she had stopped again.

"I told you to—" the wizard was cut off as a large body piled into his, snarling and biting. Two more howls sounded in the immediate area. The armored Justiciars pulled out their weapons and advanced on the creature.

Dorthe's mind raced and before she thought of all the drawbacks to her decision, she bolted to the right as fast as her legs would carry her.

A second wolf jumped from the brush and took a bite at her leg. She gave a scream and twisted out of the way, nearly falling since she couldn't balance herself. Instead she stumbled but kept up her sprint as the wolf chased after her down the winding path toward Whiterun.

She was almost to the river, she could hear some of the rapids ahead—it was the river that ran right by Riverwood, behind her home. Unfortunately it flowed north, and couldn't take her back if she tried to ride the currents. However, it did move faster than she could run from The Thalmor or any wolves. The wolf behind her leapt forward and grabbed a bit of the skirt of her dress; the material ripped and she was pulled backward a bit, hitting the ground.

The wolf went for her throat but suddenly froze with it's jaw hanging open, it's sharp teeth dangerously close. The whole body of it was illuminated in a tint of dark green.

She realized at once, it had been hit with paralysis magic like she had been. The Thalmor were coming.

Panicking, she rolled herself athwart the forest floor, trying to keep from gasping at the sharp jabs of rocks and twigs under back and chest. The roll was painful and dizzying but she finally could roll no more as she hit the river's edge. The water was chilly, but she didn't let it dissuade her from using her legs to push herself further into the current. It finally grabbed her, and she kicked to the surface to grab a breath of air. Water rushed past her ears and she could barely hear the Thalmor Justiciars shouting at her from the bank while the river swept her downstream.


	4. Mila

Flames flickered as if dancing; the log underneath them crackled, and a few ashes spilled outward. A girl nearby avoided the cinders and leveled her gaze at the fire, it was a suitable place to focus her eyes on while her real focus was internal. Her fingers were clenched around the handle of a rough mug only half-full of ale.

He had not returned.

She had waited.

She refused to cry about it. Too many of her tears had been spilled for him already.

There were not many people at the Bannered Mare after the drinking hour, so she could have let a few tears fall but even then she refused.

She was fourteen when he had proclaimed his love.

She was fifteen when he was sent off to join the Imperial Legion.

She was nineteen now.

Not one letter had he sent in those four years. She knew that he was alive, and she was thankful, but he should have returned by now. If not for her—at least the high-to-do wedding of the Jarl's daughter. His family would have made sure to notify him of the event.

But he hadn't even returned for that.

"Why such the melancholy my dear Mila?"

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. She stared blankly at the flames before transferring the gaze to the bard who had posed the question.

"Not now, Mikael."

He merely grinned at her brush-off and plucked a few strings on his lute whilst leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the inn, "I'm sure I could cheer you up with a song."

She doubted a song could mend a broken heart but judging by his cocky tone and posture he wouldn't be dissuaded of his claim.

Mikael had always been nice to Mila when she was a young girl—she suspected later that it was to get on her mother's good side. However, after his years of trying to romance her mother to no avail, he cooled down in demeanor and became less friendly. She figured that was because he had finally understood Mila was the only obstacle in the way of him winning Carlotta Valentia's love and resented her for it. In recent times, however, his disposition toward her had turned exceedingly kind and cheery once more despite her mother's disinterest in the man.

He played a lovely intro and started singing, keeping his eyes and smile focused on her. She shifted in her sitting position uncomfortably and didn't meet his eyes.

Mikael did have the voice of an Aureal—it was deep and rich and pleasant on the ears and whether or not she approved of the fact, the sound of it made her perk up just a bit. She took another swig of her ale.

A traveler staying at the inn was the only other patron still in the main room at the late hour. He stood and swung his ale cup back and forth merrily along with Mikael's song. Mila absently tapped her foot to the beat and when he was done, Mikael smiled with satisfaction. He took a seat next to her on the bench and leaned in further to speak than what was necessary.

"Does your mother know you are out?"

Instead of reacting by moving away, she instead leaned forward with a frown, proving to him she wasn't intimidated—"It's none of her business how late I stay out—I'm a grown woman."

"That you are," Mikael agreed and his eyes dropped below her face, across her body and back as quick as they left her face, but not without Mila noticing.

"It's none of your business either," she snapped as a deep blush appeared on her cheeks and she scooted away, another whole seat between them.

"There's only one reason a beautiful lass would be drinking alone long after the sun has set," the bard went on with an assured tone. She only could raise her brow with doubt.

A look took to the Nord's eyes she wasn't used to seeing.

Sadness.

He gave a forlorn look before saying, "Love-scorned."

She opened her mouth with surprise, "How would you kn—?"

"Your mother put me through a heartache so deep I couldn't bring myself to sing for a whole month."

The words were hyperbolic, sad and poetic—the kind of smooth-talking she had come to expect from the bard in her years knowing him. She remembered her mother's point of view of the past—one where a young, single widow tried to provide for her family but kept on being harassed by men. Her mother had claimed Mikael was the most bothersome of lot. He even went as so far to publish a book about all the eligible women of Whiterun, which only brought more pestering suitors from across Skyrim and even as far as Hammerfell.

Men thought her mother was beautiful, a trait to which many in Whiterun said Mila had inherited as she grew. Her Imperial Blood gave her skin more color than the pale Nords of Skyrim. Working outside added even more color—a layer of pale pink that was quite charming. She had her mother's luscious dark-oak colored locks and matching wide eyes.

She didn't know how to respond to Mikael; she had never considered his feelings on the matter before but didn't necessarily feel bad for him either—she was somewhat aware of his reputation and figured he could have moved on quicker than most men that her mother had rejected.

She took another swig of her drink and looked away, not bearing to see the forlorn expression that mirrored her own feelings—no matter if it was only a ruse to have her feel sorry for him and let her guard down.

"That Battle-Born lad you were always running about with—was he not supposed to return for Lady Dagnessa's wedding?"

Mila went rigid at the mention of Lars and then shrugged without returning her gaze to the bard, "He did not, but it would have been for nothing—it was cancelled until further notice. The lady was abandoned at the altar."

She caught a sigh in her throat, "Besides, I doubt Lars has much time to attend weddings or see dear friends while he is in the Imperial Legion."

She didn't mean to sound bitter on the last part, but it was evident. She was done talking about Lars and his failure to return to Whiterun, however thoughts about the subject had and would continue to plague her thoughts.

"My dear, you're mug is nearly empty—allow me to buy you another fill," the bard held out his hand in offer.

She should have started to head back to her home—she knew her mother would chide her for staying out so late and worry that the lass wouldn't wake in time to mind the vegetable stand, but Mila wasn't ready to go just yet.

After a moment, she acquiesced and let the bard take her mug and give it to the proprietor to fill again.

"BARD!"

They both looked to see the other patron raise his cup, "How about another song?"

Mikael nodded and gestured he'd be just a few moments.

A song would be more welcome than the current silence but for the buckling noise of the logs underneath the fire. She rather did like music and always had. If she wasn't needed to help her mother with the business, she would have considered joining the Bard's College.

It had been a long day, selling to the many travelers in town for the wedding, anticipating seeing Lars in the crowd, watching in wry glee as the guests left the city gates and mumbling about a '_waste of time_' when it was discovered that brat, Dagny, was left standing under the Gildergreen without her groom. Then there was the terrible disappointment of learning Lars wasn't there. She didn't feel tired, just miserable and contemplative.

"Here you are milady," Mikael handed her the mug that was heavy and damp with more drink.

She thanked him as she should. Just because she didn't care for the man didn't mean she had to be rude.

"And now for Ragnar the Red..." Mikael adjusted his lute and began to play. She had heard this song a hundred times and let her mind enjoy the tune without paying mind to the words—as the lyrics were of an unpleasant nature.

She lifted the mug to her lips and noticed straight away it wasn't ale, but mead—which was a bit more costly than she could afford. She had it before, for her eighteenth birthday, when it was the first time she had tried it. It was sweeter than she remembered—but then again, there were many types of mead, and all were sweeter than ales. She was far from a connoisseur and decided to just enjoy the sweet taste as she rarely got to have it.

After taking another sip, she laid her chin in her hand and studied the singing bard. It was rather kind of Mikael to buy her mead, the drink was pricy and she figured he didn't make much coin working as a bard. He was a sweet man under all his strut and slyness, and though he was many years her senior, she could understand why women thought him attractive. He was tall, with blue eyes and fair hair as most Nords, but he was also talented.

Mila's eyes fluttered a bit, hit with sudden lethargy. She hadn't felt so tired a moment before, but the late hour combined with the drink, music, and cozy heat of the fire must have started to make her drowsy.

Mikael's song ended and the patron clapped, tossing a gold coin to the bard before departing up the stairs for the night.

Perhaps it was time for her to go to bed too. Her head lolled out of her hand and she barely caught herself from tipping forward. She saw a blurry form approach her, "You don't look too well."

What did they mean by that? She noticed the singing had stopped and knew it was Mikael who had said it. She wasn't feeling sick at all, in fact, she had started to feel very pleasant.

She only smiled, "I'm perf—perfectly fine, Mikael." Something felt so good in her, the alcohol certainly helped but she could handle a cup of ale without feeling so giddy—she felt light-of-heart despite the sadness she had been feeling only moments before.

"Thank you again for the mead," she stood and used the wooden pillar to balance herself. The world was suddenly a-whirl with color—orange and yellow from the glow of the fire casting off every object in the room, off Mikael even, giving him an ethereal glow. The floor seemed to be made of liquid wood, casting waves that lapped against the stone base of the hearth. She had never felt like this before, she had never seen the world like this before.

Her vision straightened out long enough to see Mikael grinning with amusement at her bemused wonder in her surroundings.

"What are you smiling about?" she returned the grin and kept a hold on the pillar as she leaned outward to steal a string-pluck on his lute. She saw the elk head mounted on the wall behind him give her a wink and pantomime a kiss which sent her into a fit of giggles.

As she was asking, the door of the entrance to the Bannered Mare had opened to another late-night visitor.

The wind was bit chilly, and it swirled inside-clashing against the heat. It had somewhat of a sobering effect and so did the person who had joined them, "He's smiling like a fox about to take a hen."

The comment was stated as a cold, amused, fact. Mikael immediately stepped away from Mila and gave a shallow bow.

Mila's attention on the elk wavered and her hold on the pillar slipped. She tripped forward and was caught in one arm of the newcomer and then put back to balance. Though she didn't let go, and continued holding firmly to the arm for further stability, fearing she would fall into the deep end of the liquid wooden floor if she did relinquish grip.

His form wasn't entirely discernible. It was a fact he was much, much taller then she. He was also slimmer than the average grown man, she could tell by the lack of brawn in his upper arm that she was holding to so tightly. His clothes—a dark fur-lined cloak—were clean and so was he. No stench of staleness like most of those in who lived in the Plains District.

"What do you mean '_a fox_?'" she frowned—hit with the same wave of lethargy from before and sunk further into him without meaning to. She gave small groan at the way the room spun around her, the walls expanding and then contracting as if going to consume her.

"You are just prey to him, a plaything for him to pleasure himself with," her anchor answered and leaned in closer—for a brief second—his face became clear. He had dark auburn hair, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of a storm with the same temperament in them. He took a deep breath through his nose, then retreated from his position of study and turned an eye to the bard, "Moon sugar?"

"I was just going to have a bit of fun, my Thane," Mikael said in a casual tone as if the man should have understood.

_Thane? _The word kept her from nearly passing out as the walls sank into the ocean of floor.

"Get out of my sight, _Bard_, before I tell the guard you've been drugging drinks with filthy Khajiit intoxicants."

She didn't get to see if Mikael obeyed this order. She was concerned with walls closing in around her like a giant jaw.

But her head was suddenly spinning too—with anger, fear, and embarrassment at herself. How could Mikael be so disgusting? How long did the effects of moon sugar last? She tried to ask, but a slurred sound came out—incoherent to anyone listening. The Thane tried to pry her off but all that dissolved moon sugar that had made the mead taste so sweet, and which had made her feel so good—finally gave the signal for walls to consume her and all that remained was blackness.


	5. Aventus

Blood trailed the length of the sword, contrasting against the light, steely green of refined malachite, until it finally dripped off the tip and onto the wooden floor. Other drops followed until a substantial puddle of crimson formed. The owner cared not; it wasn't his concern to cover up the evidence of death—only cause it.

He didn't look particularly menacing, for being an agent of such harrowing circumstance.

Aventus had always had an earnest face, sincere-looking eyes, and a boyish smile. It was easy for him to be trusted by those who had never met him. His marks never saw how truly cold he could be until seconds before they died.

The body of the latest target lay on the floor just an arm length away from the blood. It drew no guilt nor remorse from him.

He often wondered where or how he had become so calculating and uncouth but he was kidding himself and knew it happened when he was forced to return to Honorhall Orphanage when he was twelve years old__.__

__After his Black Sacrament failed, after the guards of Windhelm evicted him from his home, after Grelod the Kind had nearly beaten him senseless and refused him food for three days—he had stood in doorway of her bedroom with a rough-sewn cloth pillow, quietly sniffling back tears while fresh bruises spotted his sides. In one decisive movement he shoved the pillow over the old woman's face and held it with all his might. She struggled but his fury gave him strength and he held fast. He was doing this not only for himself but for Hroar, Runa, Samuel, and Francois. They all had suffered enough under Grelod's cruelty and he was rightfully ending it. He didn't let up until her arms stopped clawing at him and dropped limply over the edge of the bed.__

__After he removed the pillow and saw her vacant eyes, cruel-looking even in death, he went back to his cot and had the most restful sleep of his life.__

He swiped his sword across the bed covering to cleanse it, as best as it could be cleansed until he found a water source to truly wash it. He never liked the sight of black dry and crusted blood on his weapon. It seemed sloppy.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned fully but couldn't ascertain any form—human nor animal that could have caused it. The sun was setting and the light was becoming scarcer as thin traces of it came through the window.

It could have been a trick of the mind's eye too.

Another shadow shifted and he raised his sword, ready for an attack—spinning around.

Nothing.

He gave a sigh and pushed back the hood of his cloak, rushing a hand through his dark, neck-length, hair in mild frustration. Now he had a full peripheral view of the room.

Sometimes his imagination got the best of him too.

As he grew, he became more cautious and found his mind would often imagine the worst of scenarios he foundhimself in. There was the time, when he was seventeen and contracted to dispatch a merchant traveling through Falkreath. He anticipated the merchant to have guards, from what Nazir had told him. Several guards, in fact and Aventus wasn't entirely sure he could kill them all but knew he would die trying. However, once he spotted the wagon, it was just the merchant and his mistress and the visions of a small battle were clearly only in Aventus's head. The mark was easy and died quickly, but it wasn't until Aventus was heading back to the santuary that he saw there was a group of guards who must have been dallying behind. They did not see him but he could hear their cries of alarm down the road when they did find the gruesome scene. A battle with them would have been thrilling but logic told him he wouldn't have survived and since they were not witnesses to his crimes, he continued on.

The shadows moved again. Of course shadows would shift as the sun settled in the west. However the way they moved seemed unnatural as far as shadows went. He had to remind himself they were just shadows.

With his sword sheathed, and the current mark eradicated—the only thing left to do was find something to prove to the brotherhood that the deed had been done.

Nazir had said the mark owned an enchanted ring made of rubies set in gold. Aventus kneeled next to the body and lifted an arm, searching the fingers for the jewelry.

Nothing.

He checked the other hand and it was the same outcome.

His eyes gazed over the room with consideration—there on the desk was a lock box. He plucked a lock-pick form his pocket and went to work on it. After a few turns, the lock forced open with a __click__ and the cover popped open. There were gold coins, rare jewels, but no actual jewelry.

__By the Night Mother, where could it be?__

His window of opportunity to get the job done and escape was closing, and Nazir had been adamant on Aventus obtaining the ring. They never usually were required to bring tokens of a kill back, and it struck Aventus odd that this time it was part of the contract.

A sudden shine of red reflected off the wall and Aventus turned to see a last ray of sun, hitting through a piece of jewelry atop a small wardrobe. He grinned at his luck of finding it near the last moment.

As he reached out for it, something so quick and forceful flew into the floorboards past his hand that it splintered the wood. He reeled backward—keeping his balance and unsheathing this sword in anticipation of a full-on attack. His mind wasn't playing tricks on him after all.

It had been an arrow, shot so precise that it had meant to miss his hand and act as a warning.

He viewed the length of the darkening room to see no one. He looked again to the arrow, the fletching pointed at a near vertical angle and he slowly looked toward the ceiling where he saw a figure clad in dark leather, sitting in the rafters and holding a bow—another arrow knocked and pointed straight at him.

"That's not yours," they said, matter-of-factly.

The voice was distinctly female, young, and Nord-accented—muffled slightly by a cowl.

Her figure was crouched, most of her face was covered except for her eyes—beyond that detail, he couldn't see much besides that she was built to sit in the shadows.

"Neither is it yours," he replied coldly, "and since I dispatched the owner, it is now mine."

"The brotherhood doesn't __steal__ objects. It only steals lives."

He wasn't wearing anything that identified him as a part of the brotherhood and had to wonder why she assumed it. There was a long pause, and after a moment he asked, without trying to make it sound so obvious it were true, "What makes you think I am in the Dark Brotherhood?—I could just be a simple mercenary. "

"I have never seen a _simple mercenary_ dispatch so neatly—you kill with an assassin's skill."

He smiled slightly, appreciating that his careful work made her take notice, "Thanks."

"You're welcome—but no matter, that ring is already spoken for."

"Who speaks for it?" Aventus demanded to know.

"The Thieves Guild."

He should have known that's what she was, though he was expecting her to give a name. She rocked back on one heel without taking aim off him, "And to be honest I am a bit upset you killed the poor soul. Hopefully __I__ won't be blamed for that," she gestured a finger toward the lifeless body below.

"Yet you threaten __my__ life," he frowned.

"If I stick an arrow through your hand you won't __die__," she said in a lighter tone that almost betrayed laughter, "Though you may not be able to hold a sword or pick locks for a while. Now pick that shiny up and hand it to me."

"Come down here and get it yourself," he taunted. He sheathed his sword to show he wasn't going to attack her with it if she should.

The room was darkened now, as the sun had fully set. It was hard to actually make her out as she blended so well with the twilight. She withdrew her aim and returned the arrow back to the quiver fastened behind her.

He could hear the creaks of the rafters as she descended, gracefully even, and landed onto the bed. There were sounds of shifting leather that she wore as she bent over to feel for where she thought the ring was on top of the wardrobe.

As she moved, he had been thinking of why the two guilds were going after the same object. It may have been that the person who initially made the contract with Nazir was also a client of the guild and had booked the same job. Perhaps the Thieves Guild was the back-up in case the Brotherhood failed. He inwardly scoffed at the thought of failing—he was too thorough to let that happen—then again here was this __thief__ trying to take something he was told to obtain.

Unfortunately for her, she knew he was in the Dark Brotherhood, so she must have also known the brotherhood's policy. There couldn't be any witnesses to a contract kill, that much was clear and any denizen of Tamriel knew it.

Aventus leaped forward and plowed into her, knocking her backward and her bow from her grasp. She gasped and gave a shout of surprised outrage. He put all his weight into her, a knee into her chest and reached for a glass dagger in his boot—intending to end it with a swift blade slice across the throat. She struggled violently, hitting him in any way she could with her free hand. He managed to grab her wrist and pin her arm above her head so he had an unobstructed path to her neck. He let the dagger fall.

In a movement that only spoke of how agile and capable the young woman was, she swung her hips up and wrapped her legs around his torso, forcing his arms tight at his sides. The position caused him to lose balance and tip backward until his back had fallen against the floor and she, in turn, was on top of him in a straddle. The dagger clattered out of his hand and across the floor. He tried to move his arms but her muscles were drawn tight enough they wouldn't budge. It was a reversal of power.

"How dare you—" he hissed but was pulled up with a vicious tug by the neck of his cloak and he felt her lips brush against his.

__Kissed?__

For once, he was too stunned to speak. The thief laughed at his reaction and did so heartily, causing both of them to quiver slightly. He was briefly caught in the memory of the last time someone had kissed him so long ago.

"__I have a secret," he confessed in a whisper as the Riften Guard carried away the body of Grelod the Kind the next morning. All the adults had determined the headmistress had expired due to natural causes. He didn't know why he whispered his crime—perhaps just so someone knew. The only person near enough to hear was Runa Fair-Shield, a fellow orphan that bore a black-eye from when Grelod threw a bowl at the child days prior when she had asked for more gruel. Runa was standing against the wall trying contain a smile at the passing body. His words caught her attention.__

"__What is it, Aventus?"__

"__I smothered Grelod to death last night," it wasn't an apology—just a fact.__

__He didn't know what to expect but certainly didn't expect the little blonde girl two years his junior to lift up on her tip-toes and peck him on the lips in gratitude.__

"Aretino."

His surname, spoken in a laugh by the same woman restraining him, brought his mind back to the present at once.

She spoke it as if she knew him, but he certainly didn't know her. He couldn't even see her with the cowl obscuring her features. Before he could even ask who she was, she hauled back and punched him the face so hard that all consciousness left him and the last thing he could hear was her laughter ringing in his ears.


	6. Hroar

How many damned mudcrabs were there on the bank of the White River? Honestly, Hroar counted the seventh as he withdrew his sword from the chitin of another corpse.

All he wanted was to get to the river's edge, refill his water skin and get on with patrol. It wasn't enough that a hoard of mudcrabs tried to murder him, but so were Imperial soldiers, bandits, and any random marauder or animal he so happened upon. It was a small wonder that the Stormcloak camp in Whiterun Hold hadn't been raided yet…again. He sheathed his sword and spat at the mudcrab though it wasn't alive to feel the slight.

Hroar had always wanted to do something with his life, and he wanted to join the Stormcloaks as soon as he was old enough. He had believed in their cause. Now going on three years in the service with Skyrim's sons and daughters, his hopes were lingering as each day there was increased word that another camp or company had been cleared by the oppressors.

He bent down and let the river water flow into his water skin that he held steady with one hand while removing his helmet with his other. Then he let it drop and splashed some water on his face. He hadn't properly bathed in a while either, mostly rain and quick moments of wiping water over the face was enough to get rid of most of the sweat and grime that had accumulated there.

Despite the brief moments of feeling refreshed, his chapped lips, unshaven, unruly facial hair, skin-scraped knuckles, and general odor always brought him back to feeling like the disgusting Nord soldier that he was. After wiping any excess water from his face with his arm, he donned his helmet once more.

He capped his water skin and stood with a sigh, quiet enough it shouldn't attract any attention but still heartfelt nonetheless. He knew better than to attract attention, mostly because whatever he did attract wanted to kill him. So he was very aware of his surroundings and had to be at any given moment. As of now the only movement was from the pines swaying in the light breeze, the rushing water from the river, and the logs that were thumping against the bank while being trapped by a protruding rock.

If he weren't fighting a losing war, if he didn't have orders to patrol, he would have lingered to enjoy the day or even try to bathe. On second thought, he wouldn't bathe because the current in the river was particularly strong and he would have lost his head if he was swept downstream without his uniform or armor.

His sight followed downstream, just imagining his own embarrassment at having to trek upstream in the nude if the scenario played out—but something he saw broke those thoughts and he held his breath.

A body.

A human body, laying still, on its side, with its bottom-half in the water and top-half on the land.

He had seen bodies before, of those who fought by his side, of his enemies. He had killed persons of various races and gender in skirmishes so he wasn't squeamish nor scared at the sight of it—just apprehensive.

Tying his water skin to his belt in one move and unsheathing his word in another, Hroar stepped closer toward the body on light steps. Upon closer inspection, it was a female dressed in civilian clothing. The clothing was torn in places which made him wonder if a bear or the like had been disturbing the body.

He used the flat of his sword to roll her over in one move—seeing if she really was dead. Her body rolled to the side limply, facing him so he could see her features.

The first thing he noticed was that her hands were shackled together. The poor thing probably had drowned if not been out-right disposed of and dumped in the river. Her clothes were soaked and dark blonde strings of hair were slicked to the sides of her face.

Her body heaved suddenly, responding to the movement and coughed, vomiting a mouthful of water before dragging in a ragged breath. Hroar lifted his sword pointedly and took a quick step back before studying the young lass, then glancing around to make sure she hadn't attracted any unwanted attention with her noises.

She posed no danger that he could see, so he once again sheathed his sword and then knelt next to her. Her eyelids were still closed, but she had made a noise that told of pain. She was somewhat conscious and not yet coherent.

At least he could do her a favor and get those wrist shackles off. He figured they were the usual leather straps that were commonly used and he could just cut through them but upon closer inspection, it was Elvin material. Thin chains that were crossed in a figure-eight between the wrists but too strong to break under his steel sword.

This lass had just become far more interesting to him, for what regular person just showed up at a river's edge, bound in Elvin chains?

He didn't know what to say to her to establish his presence. To ask her if she was all right, or how she felt would have been ludicrous because he could see she wasn't well at all—looking half-drowned and battered.

"What's your name?" he tried.

Her eyes opened slightly in acknowledgement, taking in his appearance, and then she gave a groan of exhaustion.

"No," her voice managed to crack. She rolled to her side so he was facing her back again.

"That's an odd name," Hroar noted out loud with a smirk and stood to give her space.

She ignored his quip, and instead made a move to sit up, propping herself on an elbow. She gave a cry of pain and held her stomach, increasing pressure on her ribs. However she didn't crumple like he expected. She continued to try and raise her body without support, with her hands still bound together.

"Stop," he commanded. She was just going to injure herself further. He pulled his last healing potion from his belt. He was saving it for the inevitable moment an enemy should happen upon him but it'd do this lass wonders in her current state. Not fully heal her of course, but at least refresh her enough to soothe the harshest of pains. "Here, take my healing potion."

"I don't want anything from the likes of _you_!"

He was taken aback by the venom in her tone. She had twisted around to face him, glaring with hate and grimacing in pain all at once. Her fierce brown eyes pierced him and he felt guilty for whatever he had done to make her so angry with him.

She started to limp away, slightly stooped to the side where she was holding her stomach—breathing heavily with effort after every move.

"You want to die then?" he asked, throwing out his arms to indicate the wilderness they were in. There were no cities nor inns within hours of walking distance. She would succumb to her injuries before she ever reached a semblance of civilization, not to mention she could even put up a fighting chance with her hands in shackles. She kept limping away without answering him. She was either very brave or very stupid. "What a shame, since you have survived this far."

Those last words caused her to halt. She turned back and looked at him a long moment, seeming to try to understand if he was being sarcastic or sincere after the way she had acted toward him.

"I wouldn't even be in this situation if it wasn't for a _Stormcloak_ like you," she finally said, the words were low and filled with disgust. The majority of it was emphasized on his faction alone and he realized what the reason was to why she held so much distaste for him. She supported the Empire.

"What is your situation exactly?" he was still curious to how she ended up discarded by the river's edge in Elvin shackles. The Empire was in league with the kind that had bound her, it didn't make sense to him why she would still support them.

"It doesn't concern you."

By Akatosh, she was a stubborn one. Hroar put his healing potion back in his belt pouch since she had refused it.

"It does concern me. You see I am on patrol and I am supposed to report suspicious activity—and since you are clearly in opposition of the Stormcloaks, and since you washed ashore with _those_ shackles," he nodded at her wrists, "I'd say you are the most suspicious thing I have seen today."

He could see immediately that she realized he knew the origin of that which had bound her. She looked down at the chains as soon as he had made the indication. He had been advancing closer to her since she had stopped walking away, as well as distracting her with words and she gave a brief look of surprise before Hroar grabbed her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder, "I'm taking you in for questioning."

She shrieked in anger or pain, or both and hit him in his back, right under his shoulder blades, even though she was far too weak to fight at the moment. He didn't feel a fraction of pain.

"If you make too much noise you'll attract unsavory company," he warned. He quickly scanned the area for any possible movement from something other than the lass kicking at his waist.

"As if any other company can be more unsavory than _you_," she choked out.

He wasn't baited by her insult, "I doubt you'd rather have a frostbite spider for company. Or one of the hundreds of mudcrabs along the river bank. They can't even be reasoned with."

"And you can?"

He gave a shrug, which caused her to grunt with pain since her stomach was directly on his shoulder. "I did offer to help, but you refused it."

A few moments of silence passed as he climbed the hill while carrying her. Eventually she stopped struggling and went slack against him, which was probably in both their best interests.

"What are you going to do with me?" he could hear traces of fear in her question and it made him soften. He didn't have any ill intentions toward her, but her predicament was too strange to ignore.

"I suppose our camp's leader will want to know of your involvement in the Thalmor—"

"I said _nothing_ of the Thalmor!"

Her body physically jerked and tensed as soon as he had suggested it. It wasn't common for Dunmer or Bosmer to go around shackling citizens in their fancy steel-proof bindings.

But her reaction was proof enough that she had been involved in the Thalmor in some respect. He just shrugged again, causing her to stifle a gasp. Her stomach gurgled loudly.

"As I was saying, the Head-Smasher will want to question you. He is our soldier that oversees Stormcloack activity in Whiterun," he finished and felt her tense and couldn't help but to grin, "He won't smash _your_ head, that's just what we call him"

"How are Stormcloaks even still in the hold? I thought they were driven back to Eastmarch?"

Hroar didn't expect her to ask such a question—the inquiry tasted of a spy trying to gather information— so he changed the subject back to what it was before and ignored her question completely. "I suppose after he's satisfied with your explanation he'll have those shackles removed and send you on your way."

"You won't be able to get these shackles off, not without a blade made of orichalcum," she snapped back immediately.

"What are you talking about?"

"Moonstone ore is used to craft Elvin armor and weapons, orichalcum is the opposite of moonstone; it's harder and is the only thing that can cut through it."

Hroar hadn't known that, and he couldn't remember if any of the soldiers at the camp owned any such Orcish weapons. He was mildly impressed she had the knowledge— she must have either have been bookish or grown up around a smithy. Neither of those attributes Hroar could have used to describe his childhood.

"Well hopefully for you someone has an Orcish blade handy. Otherwise you might have to go all the way to Windhelm to get those shackles off."

That was the last they spoke for a while. Climbing uphill while carrying another body wasn't as easy as just walking, but it wasn't impossible for Hroar. He had grown to be tall with a good set of shoulders. Living in Honorhall Orphanage, he was forced by Grelod the Kind to fetch water for the orphanage every day since he was six years old until her passing. For every inconvenience she insisted that he had been the cause of, Grelod sought to punish him by ordering him to fetch more buckets of water. More than once he brought so much water back that there was no more pans or barrels to fill, so the wretched lady took the bucket and dumped all the water out the back—right in front of him—and then demanded he fetch more.

Just thinking on those memories made his blood boil.

He figured he had a subconscious desire for abuse because the first thing he did after coming of age was join the Stormcloaks. Or perhaps he just wanted some likeness of a family. He wanted to be around those he could trust with his life. He didn't want to be alone.

The camp wasn't far, just up over the next rocky hill. He stopped walking, suddenly having a thought that it would be best if this lass didn't know where the camp was. She had been quiet for a while and possibly had been paying close attention to her surroundings in order to report the area the camp was in to the Legion or even contemplating to escape.

"We're close now," he said, to get her attention.

She didn't respond.

"Oi, did you hear me?" he shrugged, suspecting the move would get her acknowledge him. She didn't even let out as much as a moan. In fact, she didn't even flinch—she was completely limp.

He set her to the ground to find she was out of consciousness once again. Her clothes were still damp but her hair seemed much dryer than before. He brushed away a few strands of hair that had fallen into her face just to check. They did swipe away easily enough, proving so. Now that her hair was pushed back, he found there was also a deep blue spread across the skin covering the left side of her forehead, extending to her temple.

He knew bruising like that was serious. Without another thought he pulled the health restoring potion from his belt and unclasped the cover. He held her chin steady and forced open her mouth, pressing the opening of the bottle to her lips and poured the liquid between them. She responded once the liquid hit her throat, gave a few coughs after swallowing but otherwise didn't open her eyes. Her head lolled to the side and she took a strained breath.

That should help her enough, but the affects didn't take immediately. The best course of action was to get her to the camp, especially while she couldn't see how to get there. The camp had more healing agents as well—if not potions, possible raw materials that helped in recovery.

Hroar wasn't versed that well in what ingredients helped in what aspects and he was lousy at alchemy nor had the gift of magika. He had done all that he could to help her for now. He pulled her up, this time into his arms and carried her properly and not as a sack of potatoes.

The camp consisted of six tents, three small and three large—with a fire pit and wood stump for cutting more wood.

The present soldiers looked at Hroar curiously as he entered camp with the young lass.

"What have you got there?"

The inquiry was posed in a leering manner by a particular soldier Hroar couldn't stand being around. The unsavory Stormcloak had been fighting longer than Hroar but didn't outrank him. However, the man had always acted as though he were more valuable to the Stormcloaks than Hroar just because he had been in service longer. He was boisterous, rude, and had bad humor. The soldier's brows raised suggestively, "Some nice bedside company?"

"Where's the Head-Smasher?" Hroar ignored the ungallant insinuation and asked to anyone who would hear. He caught the eye of the quartermaster and they approached to look over the lass.

"He was called to Windhelm to discuss new orders. He left me in charge," was the explanation the soldier gave.

Hroar raised a brow and gave a look to the quartermaster and they returned a disappointed nod that it was true. Not many enjoyed the company of the particular Nord warrior.

He kept his sigh of disappointment to himself and found a bedroll of furs to set the lass on until she felt better and woke up.

"She's stable but I'll patch up a few cuts," the quartermaster declared and left their spot to grab a wooden mortar to grind ingredients in.

Hroar removed his helmet and set it to the side, glad to have the breeze once again blowing on his face. All the while the camp's temporary charge watched over them, seeming to bristle with impatience to understand why she was there.

"Leave her be, she's got a serious knock on the head," Hroar turned and put himself between the lass and the brutish Nord.

The Brute's lips drew back in a half-snarl, apparently not liking being commanded by someone they thought inferior. "Why did you bring her here then, if not to keep for yourself?"

"Odd circumstances. I need to speak with the Head-Smasher about her."

"Whatever you have to say to the Head-Smasher you can discuss with me. I was left with charge of this camp. We don't have resources to feed an extra person until he returns."

Hroar swallowed his urge to argue and merely glowered to indicate that he didn't approve or agree with the Head-Smasher's choice of charge. The only reason to leave this particular brute in command was because he had served the longest out of the present soldiers, so therefore knew the protocols. He had a hard time fully trusting the man.

Hroar nodded slightly at the temporary charge and darted his eyes to the edge of camp, signaling he wanted to talk out of earshot of those who would listen in otherwise. The man nodded back and met Hroar at the farthest point from the middle of camp.

"The lass I found on the bank of the White River. She is, at the moment trapped in Elvin-made shackles—"

"Thalmor?"

Hroar almost scowled for being interrupted but continued as if he wasn't bothered by it, "Most likely. She didn't divulge me in much detail and outright denied it."

The charge swung his head back to glance at her. She was still passed-out and the quartermaster was applying a demulcent to her cuts. Hroar didn't know how much longer she'd be so until her health restored enough to wake her.

Hroar continued, "I told her I was taking her to be questioned, but we can't free her unless one of our soldiers happens to be carrying an Orcish blade."

"If I am not mistaken the Frost-Dodger has one, but he is on patrol," The Nord sounded a hint delighted at the fact perhaps the only means of freeing the lass was currently unavailable, "Move her to my tent so the others won't bother her, and if she wakes—notify me immediately."

That sounded like a terrible idea to Hroar, "Sir?"

"That's an order."

Hroar clenched his jaw with an ill feeling crawling in his gut of what potential unwanted behavior the new charge could bestow upon the lass. Hroar would make sure to stay as long as he could at camp until she was released and keep an eye on her. They were not supposed to take civilians hostage unless they were suspected of having information of use.

He suddenly felt a surge of guilt, knowing he was the one who had brought her to the camp, and if any harm befell her it would be his fault. Though, to be fair—she'd have been dead soon enough without his aid too.

Since the quartermaster was done with their handiwork, Hroar moved her as commanded to charge's tent. It wasn't much grander than where she had lain before, the only difference was a shelter. If it were to rain, at least she'd be dry. When he had set her down, her stomach made a low growling sound as a saber cat did when one got too close. He remember then, it had made the same sound earlier too. She must have been starving, who knows how long she laid at the river bank?

There were small slabs of pheasant breast roasting on the spit that hung over the fire in the middle of camp. Also there hung a cooking pot with some simmering stew of some sort—it smelled delicious. Hroar had been patrolling since early in the morning and could use some food himself. He ladled himself a bowl and an extra one for the lass.

As he pushed back the flap of the tent, he could see movement—the lass had sat up from the bedroll in alarm. Her eyes were wide and suddenly much more alert than before. She gave him a blank stare. By that look, he had a slight concern that she had lost her memory—no recognition apparent.

He held out the bowl of stew nonetheless, "I thought you'd be hungry."

After a moment she took it; still tense. She had to hold the bowl by the bottom with both hands since they were still shackled. She blew the steam away from the food to cool it and he took a seat on the ground across from her.

"I didn't recognize it was you without your helmet," she said between releasing puffs of breath, sending the steam spiraling toward him.

He didn't realize that she had never seen him without it. Suddenly he became embarrassed about his unkempt appearance and he didn't know how to respond but with, "My face has seen better days."

He didn't wait for the stew to cool, and abruptly sipped the broth. It was cabbage, and it burned his tongue somewhat.

"You look much younger than I thought you were."

He chortled, causing some of the cabbage stew to sputter out of his mouth and into his beard. He hadn't expected to laugh, he didn't know why he found her statement so humorous. He hadn't laughed since what felt forever ago.

He could see the corners of her mouth lift in amusement, "Your voice sounds so much older."

"Well," he coughed, becoming more somber, "That's what war does to a person."

The flap to the tent opened then, the camp's charge was looking inside with a curious scowl at the bout of laughter that was heard across the camp.

"I thought I ordered you to let me know when she woke up," the charge glared down at them, seeming to also scowl in wonder at why Hroar was lollygagging about the tent and the tone in his question seemed to imply Hroar should leave immediately.

"She's awake now," Hroar replied smartly, ignoring the subtlety of the soldier and sipped more on his stew.

"Get out, I have questions for her," ordered the charge impatiently, finally voicing the demand.

Hroar pulled himself up and stood face to face with the soldier with a cold look before leaving them. He gave a farewell nod to the lass who seemed to grow more wary of her situation.

Some of his comrades were eating around the fire, all giving him curious glances but none asking out-loud about why he had brought the lass to camp. Also none mentioning what they thought was really happening now that the camp's charge had her alone. Hroar could tell many thought it was more than just 'questioning' but he ignored it for a moment and hoped that the soldier in there with her, for once, wasn't acting crude and dishonorably.

He finished off his meal and set the bowl next to the other discarded ones. He was supposed to go back to patrolling in case the enemy had pushed further. It was his unlucky draw for the week that assigned him morning and evening watch.

Whiterun was the first defense to the Stormcloak stronghold that Windhelm had become. They had lost the camp before, a few times when the Leigon had over-powered the hold and forced the soldiers to hide in caves until they could get enough forcesto fight back. He hadn't always been stationed in Whiterun either. He had started in the Rift when he joined but after a few months there, was sent to the front line in Whiterun. He would have liked to think it was because he was a good soldier, but knew the reason was probably more because he was young and expendable. He picked up his helmet and put it on, with one last glance back to the tent.

Nothing amiss.

It only took two steps before there came an outraged scream from behind him.

The lass dashed out of the tent but stopped abruptly at seeing the soldiers, realizing she was far outnumbered. The camp's charge followed rubbing the side of his head, claiming she was trying to escape. She had obviously gotten a blow in to him—a testament to her strength returning if she couldn't even hit and harm Hroar earlier.

Hroar doubted she was trying to escape since she could have tried anytime they were eating in the tent before. He suspected the charge had said or done something the lass thought rightfully vile.

Hroar casually approached her with his hands pointed at the ground to indicate he meant no harm. She seemed to calm a bit at his gesture but in one stride and move, the charge lunged forward and grabbed her from behind which caused her eyes to flash in anger at Hroar, thinking he had tricked her into submitting.

Hroar honestly didn't think the charge would do that and opened his mouth to protest—but then something even more surprising happened.

Even with shackled wrists, the lass managed to quickly pull the charge's sword from its sheath at his hip. It slid out with nothing short of a metallic scraping. She gracefully dodged out of her hold and turned the sword on him. She didn't have proper hold of it of course—both hands were clamped desperately on the hilt—but her stance was spot on. It was clear she was used to swords and knew a thing or two on how to fight with them.

The charge stood still, although his chest barreled out in a façade of bravery for having a sword pointed at him.

Hroar observed her angry stare—focused at the charge—then as it turned and scanned the rest of them until it stopped on him. Her scowl only deepened. She kept the sword pointed outward and slowly made her way to the edge of camp. She pointed it at anyone who dared step forward at her.

"I am going now. Don't follow me," she ordered, once there, as forcibly as she could muster in front of a half-dozen Stormcloak soldiers. Her orders were naive though; the Charge would likely send someone to track after her.

Or not.

All of them immediately knew something that she didn't.

They had seen him quietly approach on his return from patrol. She had no inkling he was right behind her. The Frost-Dodger was known for his amusing antics as well as being the only one in the group not to be hit by a Frostbite Spider's poison while they roamed the wilds.

They had all been tired of his pranks months ago, but they could anticipate his smile at surprising her too—when it happened to someone else it was always humorous. She looked on curiously as some of their own smiles grew in the same anticipation.

"What—" she began to inquire but it was cut out by a loud shout as the Frost-Dodger easily seized her and restrained her fast. She gasped, and dropped the sword as he made the move, utterly surprised.

"What have we here?" The Frost-Dodger asked in a laugh to her reaction, while the rest of the soldiers chuckled at the lass's bemused expression. The Charge didn't laugh; he still seemed sour that she had denied his advances, struck him in the head, or both.

But then the Frost-Dodger's smile fell as he turned her toward him and saw her face—his replaced with a different expression all together. An expression that surprised Hroar the most out of anything that had happened that day.

Recognition.


	7. Runa

To most, the smell of the place would have been displeasingly pungent and not for those with a delicate senses. However, the Ragged Flagon's musty, dirty, and damp scent was a welcome home kiss when Runa took a deep breath after stepping foot into the underground tavern. It had been too long.

Throwing her bow and quiver to the side, she ran past Dirge, and straight into Brynjolf's arms as soon as he spied her enter the room. She was delighted to be squeezed tightly by him, just as he did when she was a girl and returning successfully from a petty pick-pocketing job.

She could see in her peripheral vision that Vex was already rolling her eyes. She knew Vex to think that Brynjolf doted too much on her. The truth was, Runa loved Brynjolf so dearly and it seemed like no amount of embracing could ever convey how thankful she was to him.

The guild wasn't supposed to be a family; it was a business, but Runa couldn't help but to feel as though the leaders were like family. Brynjolf was a mentor, she daresay a father-figure. Vex was an older, disdainful sister. Delvin Mallory, she imagined as a curmudgeonly uncle.

"Hello and welcome back lass," Brynjolf greeted her warmly, and then released her—cupping her face in his hands and looking her over. "Did you complete the job in Cyrodil?"

The job in Cyrodil had been a high-stakes task. It was rare any client in Skyrim requested an object from a different province. It was entirely possible that she had broken guild rules by treading on territory that wasn't theirs.

The Thieves Guild of Skyrim was not a profitable society, and hadn't been in some time. Runa had always remembered the senior members reminisce about the old days when the guild had influence and riches beyond her dreams. It seemed that they all scraped by on lifting coin or fencing stolen items of meager worth, but Runa happily joined them because they had accepted her. It was an exciting life, so much more than working on a farm or in any mine which would have taken her in otherwise.

When she was a girl, she had always been exceptional at sneaking coins out of Grelod the Kind's purse. Sometimes her amateur thievery was at the expense of causing any one of the boys at Honorhall Orphanage to receive a beating when she wasn't caught. After the death of the cruel headmistress, Runa was able to sneak out and take to Riften's streets to purloin gold from travelers and townsfolk with ease. It wasn't long until she had seized the attention of Brynjolf and the guild. Runa was small, quick, and could fit in places the adults could not, and she never seemed to be caught. Brynjolf swore that Nocturnal had blessed the little lass in her favor.

Thievery was her one true calling, and she had no hesitation to take to the ratways to seek membership in the guild.

"You know I wouldn't have returned unless I had it," Runa simpered as she turned and approached Vex who had given her the job in the first place.

"Where is it then?"

"My hand," she replied and brought out her hands in closed fists, making Vex a sudden unwitting player in her guessing game.

"Well aren't you the tricky little minx?" Vex sneered and made a grab for the girl's right hand. Runa immediately opened her left, deftly maneuvering the ring onto one of her fingers. Those present in the Flagon gasped and mumbled as Runa seemed to disappear into thin air.

Her amused laughter gave her position away; all eyes searching in the direction of the noise, which was definite once they heard her say "What an extraordinary ring, can't we keep it?"

The patrons of the Ragged Flagon could barely make out the young woman's outline against the stone sewer walls and the bar. A bottle of ale seemingly lifted itself from the bar-top and poured itself into a mug.

"Unfortunately the client who wanted us to extract it offered to pay handsomely, so it's not ours to keep," Vex retorted and held out her hand sternly, in the direction she guessed Runa was standing, "Come now, take it off and give it here."

Runa's shape was once again discernible as she removed the ring and tossed it behind her at Vex while placing the mug to her lips. Vex caught it and pocketed it immediately. After a long swig, Runa turned her back to the bar and placed her elbows on the top of it. She gave an exaggerated pout, "That's a damned shame. I could have robbed every Jarl from here to Solitude."

"Listen to her talking like she's a master of stealth," Vex scoffed and then made a laugh in which Delvin joined in from where he was sitting. He was the actual master of stealth in the vicinity.

"Last I knew, you weren't a master of stealth either," Runa snapped back.

"Still better at it than the guttersnipe tart you are."

Runa noticed Brynjolf frown with disapproval, either at Vex's insult or at the indication of Runa's behavior. It could have been a disapproval of both.

Runa slammed her mug to the bar counter loudly and only glared at Vex. Vex enjoyed antagonizing Runa ever since Brynjolf led her into the guild at a tender age.

What seemed to annoy Vex the most was that the girl had never seemed to listen to directions, yet managed to be successful anyway. Vex couldn't stand to be disobeyed.

"So whose bed did you lay in this time to obtain it? Some Cyrodilic Noble? Or was it his roguish stable boy that gave you the in?"

Runa shrugged at Vex's inimical tone masked as teasing—it was true that Runa was coquettish and sly, she knew how to disarm those with a weakness for charming smiles and a low neckline. As she grew older, she found certain aspects of her femininity were her greatest assets to get what she wanted. Vex was just jealous that she couldn't get away with it anymore, not being in her first youth.

"I didn't have to sleep with anyone to get it," Runa mumbled into her mug. Vex raised her brows in feigned surprise and with a hint of doubt at Runa's claim.

Runa wondered if she should tell them the rest of what had happened on her journey, but decided not to. It was not in her best interest.

She took one last swig from the mug and placed a few gold coin from the pouch at her waist on the bar for Vekel the Man to collect. Delvin and Brynjolf had been listening but as always, stayed outside of the petty words Runa and Vex exchanged—figuring it would never go far enough to get physical. Both women knew that it was forbidden to assault another member of the guild.

Runa refused to make any further eye contact with Vex and grabbed her weapon, before making her way through the stony passage to the cistern. The small remainder of her guild mates were mulling around the space as usual, so she casually walked through the room as if she hadn't been gone for a month.

She had never been outside of Skyrim before and figured Vex had only given her the job to get rid of her for a while, or more likely because of the fact that Runa had the best record of lifting precious gems, gold coin, and jewelry off unsuspecting targets. Vex knew Runa's success would bring in a good chunk of wealth the guild had missed, as much as the older woman would hate to admit it.

It was known that the youngest member had more pulled off more heists in the past few years than the guild members had in twenty. After the old guild master had made off with most of the guild's coffers of wealth, the Thieves' Guild was in financial ruin. Many members had left to find more profitable work elsewhere. Those who couldn't afford to break away, or were just too set in their ways to make an honest living, stayed and suffered together. Runa decided to suffer with them, but by some miracle of Nocturnal, they landed a wealthy client who wanted a particular enchanted ring.

Rune was first to greet her, he grabbed her arm in greeting and then held her hand fast, "Welcome home, little sister."

She smiled and squeezed his hand—it was an inside laugh they shared since she became a member of the guild. Their pasts and names were so similar that they figured they should be siblings, despite him being an Imperial and she a Nord. Even though Rune was nearly 10 years her senior, he did seem to her as an older brother should.

Rune was kind and he gave her helpful advice like how to hold a bow properly and how to listen for that refreshing clicking sound of a tumbler once a lock had picked. He understood her need for family and her everlasting gratefulness to Brynjolf for taking her in.

"It's good to see you again, Rune."

"As it is you. We must have a drink later."

She nodded sincerely; Rune was always good drinking company too. He knew all the tavern songs by heart. She scanned the room a brief moment, looking for someone in particular.

Her search was interrupted by a pair of muscular arms that suddenly encased her from behind. He wasn't the one she was looking for though. Nevertheless she allowed Vipir to give a fond kiss to her cheek and heard him mumble, "I missed you."

"I told you I would return."

"You've been away too long."

She knew he felt for her, with all his clandestine touches and the wanton tone in his words—he was the first man to ever pay her romantic attention once she matured and as a master in pickpocketing, he gladly demonstrated to her how to get hands into places without being noticed. She fancied him off and on, usually when her own attentions weren't elsewhere—on a wealthy noble she could steal from or handsome mercenary that happened through Riften.

But she wasn't in the mood to hear him try to charm her into a shadowed corner at the moment.

She wanted to talk to Sapphire. Sapphire had a sharp tongue that Runa admired, and in turn Sapphire respected the younger girl's skill at obtaining loot. Unlike Vex, Saph found Runa a cheeky and refreshing female presence in the guild and the two became as close as one could in a den of thieves. Runa even knew Sapphire's real name, no one else could claim as much.

"I am back now, as you can see," Runa escaped his grasp and turned to face him, "Where is Saph?"

Vipir frowned and narrowed his eyes at her sudden change of attention, "I haven't seen her."

She knew that Vipir the Fleet didn't have as many fond feelings toward Sapphire as he did for her, mostly because Saph rebuked all his flirting. Sapphire had warned Runa against Vipir's inevitable advances as she grew, but Runa enjoyed them most of the time. Vipir was the easiest to manipulate because he had such a liking toward her.

Vipir's ability to lie wasn't a strong skill; he squinted when he tried to falsify truth, and she knew he was withholding information. She drew closer to him, and made sure that her bosom was pressed as tightly against him as possible, "Are you sure?"

His gaze melting downward and staying focused there—seeming too distracted to think for a second—before answering, "The practice room." He probably figured telling the truth would make her more favorable toward him.

Runa pushed herself away suddenly, breaking her seeming spell over him, and shoved him for lying to her in the first place. He protested and nearly fell into the water but she ignored his shout and turned on her heel to leave him. She strode purposefully through the remainder of the Cistern and into the room filled with empty chests. Sapphire was crouched next to one and carefully picking the lock of it. Runa stopped at the entrance and looked on curiously because Sapphire always seemed adept at picking locks.

"Keeping up practice?"

Sapphire's lock pick broke as she flinched slightly, coming out of her intense focus on listening to the tumblers. She saw Runa had been the interruption but smirked, "Lock picking is the best distraction."

"Distraction from what?" Runa wondered and set her bow down against the wall.

"The present." Sapphire picked herself up into a stand and lifted on her toes to stretch her calves. Runa didn't completely understand Saph's answer. "When did you get back?"

"Just a few minutes ago, actually."

"Did you get it?"

"Of course."

Runa swore she saw a hint of regret pass through Sapphire's features, though she couldn't have an idea to why. The expression passed quickly; Sapphire smirked again and let out a breath from her nose, "Of course. There isn't a shiny ring out there you couldn't snatch."

She could see why someone wanted the ring, ever since she got curious on her way back to Riften and tried the ring on, only to find she couldn't be seen by the untrained eye. Even the clumsiest thief could sneak past a group of guards wearing it. She would never say otherwise, but she may or may not have taken a detour through Bruma and Falkreath to gather additional items for fencing using the power of that ring.

She was good at keeping secrets to herself, she had to—being a thief. However there was one secret weighing heavy on her mind and that was why she sought out Sapphire.

Runa bit her lip, and looked at the ground, "The owner of the ring is dead."

It was made clear that if someone were killed while in pursuit of a job, then she'd be out of her cut of the profit, if not the entire guild.

This caught Sapphire's attention in full, causing her to frown, "You killed them?"

She often wondered what it would be like to take a life. She had seen how just one death could solve so many problems. Runa could never could bring herself to do it though, especially after she joined the guild, they had a strict 'no murdering' policy.

"Someone from the brotherhood did."

For a moment all they could hear was faint echoes of water dripping from the wet points of the Cistern. Sapphire narrowed her eyes with consideration.

Runa had been shocked, as she hid above the assassin and the former owner of the ring. She could tell they were from the Brotherhood—such precision in the way they killed—so quiet too. If it hadn't been for her sharp hearing, the murderer would have walked in on her before she could make it to the rafters above. Hiding in the rafters brought unpleasant memories of hiding in the rafters of Honorhall, holding her breath and hoping the headmistress wouldn't look up. She had always been good at hiding, had to be, while growing up and being pursued for any minor infraction of the rules which would result in a heavy punishment that varied from being starved for three days to a good kick in the ribs.

It didn't make her any more comfortable knowing who the assassin was either.

The boy she had grown up with clearly didn't recognize her, as it was dark and her thief hood had obscured her features. She knew it was he, especially after she had kissed him. She had seen his face clear enough in the twilight, finding that it had matured into a man's visage but yet he had the softest of expressions that she remembered on him when he was but a boy, and that same goofy flash of confusion after being kissed—as if someone had given him a complicated puzzle to solve and he had no idea what to do next.

It disappointed her some that he had tried to kill her, but Aventus _was_ a killer. He had murdered Grelod, and even though she couldn't have thanked him enough for that deed—there was no surprise nor happiness on her part that the lad ended up with the guild of assassins.

She never knew the Dark Brotherhood to spare the witnesses to their murders, so she distracted him long enough to punch his lights out and prevent him from following her.

She just prayed to Nocturnal that taking that course of action wouldn't come back and bite her in the worst of ways.

Because what was the harm if he didn't know that it was her?


	8. Frodnar

The day that Ulfric Stormcloak was beheaded at Helgen was the day that changed Frodnar's life forever.

Thinking back on the days that followed—when he and his family left Riverwood—he would always get a pinch in his stomach. There was no physical confrontation between his father and the villagers, but tensions were high as Riverwood's citizens had gathered around and regarded his family with hard, stony, stares.

He had known them his whole life and they all had looked at him like he was a just another bothersome skeever—all because his family refused to give up worship of Talos. His family relinquished ownership of the wood mill which had been in their family for generations. Even though his mother insisted they were moving by choice—to a mill outside of Windhelm—he could tell that his family would rather stay.

As he grew older, he came to understand why they had to leave. It wasn't safe for them nor the rest of the village since the Legion had taken Whiterun, already had Falkreath to the south and the Thalmor were allowed to freely wander and persecute in the area without opposition.

He asked his best friend Dorthe, the blacksmith's daughter, to come with him that day but her father had quickly ushered her inside their home. Dorthe hadn't looked at him like the others—never as a pest, a nuisance, or scamp—instead she had tears in her eyes. He had never seen her cry in his young life until then; not for any bruises or bumps they accumulated through play, because she had often told him crying was useless and only babies did it. Yet, that day she had done it freely because no matter how much she begged him to stay, he was still leaving.

Stump had chased after her, the mutt thinking it were all a game, but Frodnar's father called after the hound and they quietly rolled out of the village with their cart of belongings. No longer welcome. That was the last time he had seen her.

Until now.

Now he was a soldier, and almost seven years had grown between them.

He had to wonder which of the Gods to thank for delivering his message to her, it had been plenty long years without any contact, but one day not too long ago he decided to write to her—to see how she was, to ask her for some tips on smithing if nothing else. She had always been good at it and he assumed her father had taught her even more skills as she grew. Zenithar only knew how much the girl loved the forge. Frodnar would have never expected her to actually come to the camp though; how did she even find him?

Time seemed to slow as his eyes lingered over every detail of her face. Parts of it he remembered and yet some features seemed new. No trace of a smile was on her when there had always seemed to be one dancing at the corners of her mouth when they were young. A spread of freckles dotted across her cheeks and nose and had only grown sharper as she aged. Her long blonde hair was messy and loose just as it had always been after she would leave the forge and join him in play.

What was new, was the scowl of pure loathing—and it concerned him that she was so very upset, but his concern couldn't contain the smile that erupted across his face from cheek to cheek at seeing her again.

_Dorthe_

He figured he was a bit harder to discern for her, as he now had significant facial stubble and his hair had grown longer—enough to pull back and be gathered into a tail.

At the sight of his smile, her scowl transformed to something of recognition, surprise, and then relief, as she realized who it was that stood before her.

As much as he would have liked to sit down and catch up with his old friend, he finally noticed that he had interrupted something important and the reality of the situation he had walked into came crashing around them. They were in his Stormcloak camp and the last he knew, she and her family opposed the Stormcloaks—always had. He saw that her hands were shackled, her dress was torn, and she was worse for wear.

He loosened his grip at once—wondering how she came to be in such a state, and before he could ask how she had managed to find him, another Stormcloak soldier approached and roughly yanked her away by her shoulder.

Her cry of resistance spurred the Stormcloak who had grabbed her to raise his hand—presumably to cuff her into silence. Frodnar at once, lifted his sword threateningly at his Stormcloak brethren, causing the imminent strike to dissipate.

"What in the Oblivion is going on?" Frodnar bit out in question, all the playfulness gone from his usual tone of voice. There must have been a misunderstanding, she was no enemy.

"She attacked me, she has involvement with the Thalmor, and she'll be under restraint until she explains herself!"

Frodnar stepped forward with a half-incredulous and half-outraged stare at hearing the answer, but didn't lower his weapon. Another fellow Stormcloak blocked him from advancing and from making a mistake he would later regret as Frodnar stepped forward to release her himself. However, the detainment was enough of a delay that it allowed the first Stormcloak to put distance between them.

"You know we don't take civilian prisoners," Frodnar tried elbowing through the soldier that had stopped him—Hroar the Honor-Bound—but the man stood his ground.

Frodnar helplessly watched as Dorthe was dragged through the entrance to the primary war tent.

Nothing about the situation made sense to Frodnar and it only made him angrier.

"That pig-shit is in charge of the camp now. The Head-Smasher returned to Windhelm for new orders," The Honor-Bound explained in a low tone. "You can't just bloody your brothers of Skyrim—you took an oath, Frost-Dodger."

Of course the Honor-Bound would bring up the oath—he was honorable to a fault, but Frodnar could detect as much disdain in Honor-Bound's tone saying that fact as Fronar felt at hearing the news. He threw his sword to the ground in frustration and paced a bit before picking it up again and heading to grab a bite to eat. He had been out patrolling all day and he knew he shouldn't be stewing on an empty stomach.

"How do you know her?"

"Come again?" Frodnar twisted around to see Hroar following him. He didn't think anyone had noticed his smile of recognition toward Dorthe.

"How do you know that lass?"

Frodnar didn't answer right away, and only picked off a piece of pheasant breast that was done roasting on the spit over the fire and took a bite, considering a reply while chewing. His heart lifted somewhat at the taste; he was sure glad something else was for dinner that night than rabbit. They seemed to have rabbit the last four months straight.

"We grew up together in Riverwood," he finally answered after swallowing. He didn't feel the need to lie to the Honor-Bound about it.

If only he could somehow get her out of that tent and out of the camp. He wondered if he could plead with the charge? Though, after many months knowing the man, he doubted the rascal would be persuaded.

"What is her name?"

"Why are you so concerned?" Frodnar snapped. His mind was racing of ways he could get Dorthe out of the camp and all the Honor-Bound seemed to do was interrupt that process.

The Honor-Bound looked away and back at the tent she was being kept in. Frodnar joined his gaze, hating to think of what might be happening to her in there. The charge had let down the flap of skin to cover the entrance that would have otherwise been in plain view. Dorthe was in a nest of soldiers that hadn't felt a lover's touch for months on end, and he knew some of the less-honorable would desperately do anything to feel that way again just to take their mind off the war.

The evening was settling on them and Frodnar ripped further into the bird with his teeth, and glared into the fire. He was feeling torn. He had to help Dorthe, but he couldn't engage in combat with his brother-at-arms, no less the one now giving orders in camp and they surely would fight him if he made an attempt to free her. He also wanted to know how she was involved with the Thalmor—that just didn't make any sense to him at all.

"I mustn't linger, I have evening patrol," The Honor-Bound mentioned with a sigh and moved along.

"Honor-Bound, wait—" Frodnar stopped him.

He didn't know why Hroar the Honor-Bound had such an interest in Dorthe, but out of all the soldiers at camp, he trusted the Honor-Bound to have the least questionable intentions toward her, "I need your help."

"With what?"

"Getting her out of here," he made a nod back toward the tent.

"How do you suppose we do that?"

"You distract the Charge and I will slip in and take her out. It'll be dark soon so I shouldn't be seen."

Frodnar knew he had a slim chance of succeeding on his own, but at least with two it was possible to free her.

Honor-Bound hesitated, "If you're caught though, you'll be in a lot of trouble—and who knows what he'll do to her then."

Frodnar shrugged but did give it consideration—thinking back to how he had been forced to abandon Dorthe those years ago. He wouldn't do that to her again.

Couldn't.

Oath be damned.

Finally he responded, "I have to try."

The Honor-Bound nodded tentatively, seeming to accept his reasoning, "I'll distract him then."

Along with the sunset, another day was gone—some Stormcloaks left to start evening watch in areas near the camp and others came back to eat. Some started preparing for sleep and one or two sharpened their swords that had been slowly dulled after killing so many mudcrabs.

After dusk had settled into dark, Frodnar watched as the Honor-Bound approached the tent Dorthe was kept in. It was hard to see from a distance but he could tell that when the charge came out he was not happy at being interrupted.

Frodnar quickly crept around the back of the Charge's tent and pushed on the patchwork animal skin that made up the tent's cover, making sure nothing was on the other side. It moved freely to his delight. He grabbed his dagger from his belt and ripped through the material enough to peel it back and poke his head in. He saw Dorthe sitting on the ground and staring back at him with initial terror and confusion, but her expression melted to something of a calm once she saw it was only him.

"Your dag—!" she began to exclaim, but he shushed her, lest the Charge hear.

"I'm helping you escape," he whispered and gave a grin, just like he used to after telling her one of his new pranks. "Can you manage to move over this way?"

Her hands were still shackled together and it only made him angry that the charge had restrained her. Angrier still, imagining the reason why. He placed his dagger back in his belt and reached out to her.

She nodded and maneuvered herself near the cut in the material. He looped his arms around her and pulled back, extracting her from the tent. They fell backward together and she landed on top of him—she let out a groan of pain.

They could clearly hear the Charge inquire about that noise, signaling the window of time for an escape was closing fast.

"Did I hurt you?" Frodnar asked with concern and to his relief she shook her head, however, she was holding her ribs as if they ached. He gathered her up and they walked around the back of the tent.

"One of them gave me a potion earlier, healing..." she explained with quiet urgency and winced, then stumbled so that Frodnar had to tighten his hold and catch her weight, "But it mustn't been enough...or just temporary, the pain is returning."

This changed his plan. He was just going to put her on a horse and send her riding back to Riverwood but if her health was declining, it would be too far before she could get help.

Their time had run out, as they heard the Charge shout expletives and more inquiries regarding the missing captive. They were still hidden behind the tent but not for long. The horses were stabled a few strides away, but they would be in full view of the rest of the camp if he attempted to go there.

"Please don't let him take me again," Dorthe pleaded so quietly Frodnar strained to hear her.

"He won't touch you," he swore furiously.

They could hear multiple pairs of boots start to shuffle around in urgent paces, searching for her.

Honor-Bound was the first to find them, his eyes wide and signaling for them to make a run for it. Before Frodnar could kick up any dust though, the Charge was right behind Hroar looking absolutely furious.

"Frost-Dodger, you traitor!" the charge bellowed at Frodnar and drew his sword.

Whilst aiding in holding Dorthe upright, he couldn't reach for his own, so he merely scowled in defiance.

Hroar seemed to reluctantly draw his sword as well. It was action on par with Honor-Bound, but surprising to Frodnar nonetheless, since Hroar was supposed to be aiding in the escape. He cared too much about his damn honor and the oath that went with it, to actually break it—even when doing so was the right thing to do.

There was no more doubts in Frodnar of his where his loyalty belonged. He was Dorthe's friend long before he was a Stormcloak.

"Take her and restrain him," the Charge ordered Hroar. Other soldiers descended upon him, holding his arms solidly in place, lest he should grab for his weapons.

"She's injured! You can't keep her here!" Frodnar cried in desperation as he could do nothing but be forced to surrender Dorthe to Honor-Bound at sword-point. He could see tears in her eyes, and knowing her, she hated that everyone could see them. He turned his pleading toward his brother-at-arms, "You_ know_ this is wrong."

A look of regret passed through Honor-Bound's features and Frodnar's hopes dropped.

Before Frodnar fully grasped what was happening, his accomplice had launched the sword toward him and yelled "Catch!"

Frodnar ripped through restraining arms and caught the weapon by the hilt, swinging it up in defense as the Charge's came crashing down. The soldiers that had been restraining him moved out of the way now that he had a sword in hand.

Honor-Bound had made a dash toward one of the horses and quickly mounted it, placing Dorthe in front of him.

Frodnar fought with the charge, blocking every strike that was aimed at him. He was aware his fellow Stormcloaks were gathered around but not about to fight him. He knew them, they respected each other and had watched each others' backs for years, and everyone new he could best any of them in swordplay which was why they stayed away.

He pushed back and caught the Charge's sword beneath his, only to lift his leg and kick the man back before making his own frenzied strides to mount the remaining horse. The charge had quickly grabbed Frodnar's belt, managed to unsheath Frodnar's dagger and promptly slashed at his the back of his legs. The blade hit his left calf and he nearly fell into the horse before climbing it, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

"After him!" The Charge ordered and scrambled to his feet.

Frodnar urged the beast forward and snapped the reigns, while giving it a quick dig with his heels. The Horse reared and whinnied before taking off, nearly trampeling a Stormcloak in its path.

Frodnar was not a seasoned rider and clenched onto the leather strips for dear life as they jumped over rocks at a downhill angle. He was not but moments behind Honor-Bound's mount; he could hear the hoof-beats ahead of him. The others wouldn't be able to catch them even if they did try. The camp had no extra horses and it was useless to chase the two fugitive Stormcloaks that already had a head start.

His horse jumped another rock and Frodnar felt his stomach hit his throat. He groaned in discomfort but kept a hold of the reigns, trying his best to guide the horse to follow the one in front of it, instead of running it's own path. He bent forward to keep his gut contained and to diminish the amount of bouncing his body was being put through.

Honor-Bound must have reigned in his horse because the galloping ahead of him slowed. Frodnar's mount trotted past, all the while he was trying to slow his horse as well, shouting "Woah! Woah! Woah!" and pulling in on the reigns.

They were on a road now, as a definitive 'clopping' sound could be heard from beneath them which could have only been horseshoe on cobble. A few minutes went by and Hroar's horse fell into step next to Frodnar's.

Frodnar looked to Honor-Bound and could see his form through the dark, outlined by the moons, and staring ahead.

"Thank you," Frodnar said at last, then made a hiss of pain as he adjusted his left leg. It was bleeding for sure but he had no idea how deep the blade had cut him. He noticed Dorthe was quiet and dread filled him.

"We can never go back, you know," Hroar replied evenly, but Frodnar could hear a definite somberness in the tone.

They had risked everything in order to free Dorthe. They had forsaken their oaths, they would be wanted men before daybreak. Was Dorthe even going to be alright? Frodnar squinted at her through the darkness. She seemed to be passed out against Honor-Bound's chest for the time-being.

"What happened to her?" Frodnar had to ask but knew he would hate the answer, and waited for it. He assumed the charge had beaten her during an interrogation.

"I don't know the full story, but I found her on the shore of the White River this afternoon, nearly drowned. She was already shackled and with Elven chains no less. She wouldn't explain her situation so I had to bring her to be questioned. Perhaps when she wakes she'll be willing to tell you since you know each other."

So that must have been why everyone assumed she was involved with the Thalmor and why Hroar was so curious about her. Frodnar's stare darkened and anger rose in his chest, "Do you mean to tell me that _you_ brought her into the camp? How could you?"

Honor-Bound reigned in his horse to a full stop, "She would have died if I hadn't."

"Still, you could have taken her to Windhelm for healing," Frodnar's stare was a dark as ever. Anyone who thought it wise to bring a young civilian woman to a soldier's camp was being foolish.

Hroar raised his voice, "It wasn't my duty to take her to Windhelm. My orders were to patrol and report suspicious activity."

"As ever, the obedient soldier," Frodnar snarled with contempt.

"Not anymore, no thanks to both of you," The Honor-Bound bit back and then sighed, snapping the reigns and continuing forward.

Frodnar followed suit, the height of his ire prickling his nerves into silence. He noticed they were both biting their tongues to let it off. If they were to survive the coming days, they would need each others help. It had been an intense evening for both, in fact it was the most action they had seen all month long, not counting fighting the mudcrabs.

Frodnar still hadn't told him her name, but supposed The Honor-Bound should know since he had become involved with her escape.

"Her name is Dorthe."

The Honor-Bound repeated her name with consideration and nodded, "We have to go to Whiterun; it is the closest place that has healers that can help her and where we won't be arrested on sight."

Frodnar wondered how they would accomplish that since Whiterun was now guarded by the Legion, but at the moment, he was in too much pain, and his mind filled with too much worry and exhaustion to contest the Honor-Bound's plan.


End file.
